Saturday, September 26, 2015

A Man's Chastity III

“Oh, you beta males so much enjoy showing how inadequate you are!”

A jovial neighbor Denise, having finally used the key, laughs as my freed penis springs to life. The sensation of cool room air wafting over well worn super sensitive flesh cannot be described. The delight both overrides the intense humiliation of being put on display and the annoyance of Denise’s mocking words as I instantly harden... all four inches.

Yes, she has measured, initially noting that husband Jack was more than twice the size.

Still I revel, sitting in the kitchen chair, thighs widely spread to assure the cage could be slipped off with minimal abrasions from the internal spikes.

A smiling Miss Denise moves to the dishwasher. This brings a sigh. The relief will be extended, lasting the length of the dishwasher cycle at a minimum. With only the control ring and steel mesh cage to be cleansed, a modicum of soap is required. A dial is turned. A button is pressed and the hellish device will be sanitized.   

“You cook well Henry. And I must assume it is by your hand that the house is kept spotless,” Miss Denies notes stepping to where I sit in an odd combination of joy and ignominy. “But I suppose that’s about all that a woman can expect from a man of such physical limitations.”

I am helpless to intercede when a knowing finger reaches to teasingly tweak my right nipple. Wrists secured behind my back, I am under her control. But I must reflect, deep within, do I want to intercede, want to end her humiliating supervision?

The thought brings a sense of shame and such broadens when I glance down and see prostatic fluid oozing from my standing penis. It has been many weeks since my last permitted ruined orgasm. Miss Denise also notes.

“Your wife said no brushing, Henry. Perhaps she’ll take care of that messiness later.”

For my wife, the process of letting me dribble into my masturbation cup is looked upon akin to doing the laundry... which in actuality is my task of course. For her a chore of drudgery.

Amazing the contrast in perception. What I so much cherish as male ecstasy... I suppose more aptly termed potential male ecstasy... is considered the equivalent of a trip to the dentist for my wife. But what does enthuse her is my look of awe transforming to disappointment as the tantalizing brush is withdrawn just as sensual touching is most desired. Awe in enduring the power of a supervising woman... disappointment as the expected sensation, a brisance of pleasure, quickly fading into something as mundane as that felt while urinating. 
Miss Denise is aware of the brush, my wife learning that having me fill my masturbation cup in the presence of other women brings refreshing amusement to an otherwise annoying ritual. Thus Miss Denise has gleefully watched past ruined orgasms.

“Perhaps you could touch it for me, Miss Denise.”

I loath myself in so beseeching. The woman is overbearing and brusque. Still I must maximize moments freed of the cock cage. It’s instinctual male behavior, to rid oneself of the build up of seed. And in seeing Miss Denise shake her head no, wry smile evidencing her enjoyment, I must postulate as to whether it is instinctual behavior on the part of the governing woman to deny.  

“Touch? That? Why would I bother? Jack could be out of town for a year and I would not find the urge, ha, ha, ha.” 

“Well... there’s stubble. It’s best removed.”

A gruff feminine hand lowers, thumb and forefinger pinching then rolling a tuft of scrotal flesh. It both irritates and frustrates, the skin chafed from chastity, the need to feel more attention intense.

“Well, I suppose I can relieve your wife of the burden. I do Jack regularly. Makes fellatio a little neater,” Miss Denise quips.

Her observation brings a twinge of envy. While vaginal penetration is unthought of, oral gratification for me is beyond comprehension.

“Get on the table... on your back... knees to your chest,” the words a command.

I arise from the kitchen chair. I suppose the Formica table top and tiled floor offer easy cleaning should the deed become unexpectedly sloppy. As I so position, Miss Denise disappears, I assume rummaging about in the master bath for razor, lotion and towels.

Something about being handled, commanded by a woman of authority that excites. After draping my restrained arms over the front edge, I cautiously lie back, noting my erection is firmer than ever.

Why do I so react?

When I hear Miss Denise return, I obediently lift my legs, thighs to my chest as if in need of diapering.

“Such a good boy,” Miss Denise coos, extending my analogous thoughts of infant care.

At one time it would have been bizarre to think of such clinical care as sensuous. But held in extreme chastity, normal climatic relief constantly denied, being handled, submitting my raw and chafed genitals to feminine care, brings delight.

A bowl of warm water is placed just below my upturned buttocks. Knowing hands smooth shaving lotion all about. I look to see the deviant look of enjoyment for the woman in charge. She knows how much I would relish the simple dab of a finger... her warm flesh palpating mine. And thus she is most careful to withhold any touch... only the feel of soft white cream tantalizing.

Next comes the razor. It scrapes... mildly... but I am so sensitive there. Still there is noted aplomb, similar care for husband Jack evident.

But I can dichotomously sense the oral gratification offered thereafter, her tongue and lips coaxing husband Jack’s ten inches to full blossom.

The razor glides. I close my eyes, imagining the deed to be a precursor to fellatio... fellatio I know will never come.

Finally there comes the need for her fingers, stretching out the scrotal sac up, down, left then right, the razor quickly smoothing and defoliating.

Yes, it is quick... too quick... and mechanical. She knows her fingers bring evanescent joy... and such is to be minimized.

Finally comes a warm wet towel, the chore ending as I hear the dishwater end its cleaning cycle, a loud click suggesting my steel cock cage and control ring are being heated to dryness.

“All done,” the tone pridefully matronly.

I open my eyes to see my four inches remain standing in an embarrassing display. Yet it feels good, the freedom. I want more but know the cock cage awaits.  

“Smooth and clean... plus a sanitized cage ready for this little thing,” Miss Denise pointing to my erection.

“May I stay free a little longer please, Miss Denise?” I beseech.

“Why? Look at your penis Henry. It’s the size of my pinky and best kept under lock and key.”

“But it feels good.”

“And your wife feels better when it’s in chastity. And you do want her to feel good... to please her.”

I do. But how is it she will know the interval of my limited emancipation?

“I’ll get some ice.”

I hear the refrigerator door open. Hands work, pushing things about. Then there comes a pause. In a moment Miss Denise returns.

“Let’s wait on the ice and address your need, Henry. See just how much you want to stay out of your cage.”

Such a look of wickedness as Miss Denise holds up a root of ginger, purchased days ago for a zesty Japanese salad dressing I’ve been planning to try. My imagination leaps, aware from cooking class that ginger juice can burn and sting, hands to be kept from the eyes when preparing the root for consumption.      

“Stay just like that, Henry. I’ll need access to your rectum.”

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